


Dysecdysis (a tender history in skin)

by unsungyellowraincoat



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lizards, M/M, Reconciliation, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-18 06:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17576039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsungyellowraincoat/pseuds/unsungyellowraincoat
Summary: The past cannot be changed, only rediscovered.





	1. Hibernation

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wish I knew what to write in this box! Welcome to my new fic! I can already promise you that updates will be spodaric like they always are, I'm sorry about that. I've planned most of the story, but I write almost as slowly as I walk. 
> 
> I've tagged this as angst with a happy ending, but I think it's more melancholic than downright angsty. I like everyone in this fic and everyone will have a good ending, worry not.
> 
> Some background: Isak and Even are ex-boyfriends, but S3 never happened, so this is completely au. Terje Valtersen is recovering from a hemorrhagic stroke and that plays a big role in this story, so if that triggers you, please be careful. Isak is in a relationship with an OC.
> 
> Usual warnings apply: never been to Norway, writing in a foreign language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks to Ghostcat for looking over this chapter! All awkwardness and clumsiness is mine.

 

> ## dysecdysis
> 
>  
> 
> abnormal shedding of the skin of reptiles, usually due to undernutrition or too cold or too dry environment.

 

The nurse glances at him from beside the hospital bed, her face lighting up as she recognizes Isak.

”Your son’s here to see you, Terje,” she says cheerfully. Something about her bubbly firmness reminds him of the kind of mother he never had. “We just finished our shower. Wasn’t it refreshing? How was traffic? Still in chaos?”

“Not as bad as this morning,” Isak replies, throwing his damp beanie onto the bedside table before taking a seat. “It stopped snowing half-way here.”

“Just when I thought we wouldn’t get more snow this winter after that period of thaw,” the nurse says with a sigh. “But at least days are getting longer. We’re still heading towards spring.” She lets out a bright laugh. “Before you know it, we’ll be sweating our butts off, complaining about the heat.”

Isak gives her a smile. “It’s the human condition,” he says, his gaze lingering on Terje’s hands.

“Siri will help you brush your teeth tonight. I’m sure she’ll tell you all about her trip to Thailand,” the nurse says, giving Terje’s hand a squeeze before leaving the room.

No matter how long Isak stares at the hand, it won’t budge. It lies limp on top of the bedding, his fingers clenched like talons as though desperately trying to hold onto the tatters of something invisible before it slips away.

Terje’s mouth falls open, but all that comes out is a breathless wail. Isak winces at the fear that he thinks flickers in his eyes.

They never did much talking. Never about feelings, only about things that are tangible. Terje would talk about shoveling snow or splitting logs, to which Isak would reply with a disinterest shrug or a groan, and so the years would pass, and the job would get done, and everything else would go unsaid.

It’s only their roles that have changed.

“We were hit by a blizzard today. 20 cm and counting. Getting here was a real nightmare.”

“Bad,” Terje manages to utter.

Isak looks out the window. The sky is like a pot of rice porridge about to spill over. When Isak was a child, maybe four or five, his Mom taught him that beyond the clouds lies Heaven, where, if you’re good and accept Jesus into your heart, all your troubles will one day be gone. “Is Mommy going to Heaven?” Isak had asked, and her eyes had glistened for reasons Isak had been too young to grasp.

Now he knows better. Heaven is but a story. Science holds the answers. The atmosphere is layered: Beyond the clouds lies the mesosphere, then the thermosphere, the exosphere, and finally the rest of the universe. Particles escape out of the exosphere into deep space; The Earth’s atmosphere is shrinking, albeit slowly, yet at the same time, the universe is expanding. The thought consoles him, calms him down.

Nothing can be changed: regardless of his actions, particles will escape.

“They’re moving you to the rehabilitation center next week,” he says at no one in particular.

“Y-y-y-you you you y-you,” Terje stutters.

Isak blinks, then turns his gaze back on Terje, summoning what he thinks is a tiny smile. “I’ll go with you.”

That seems to reassure Terje, who closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep, his breathing slowing down like falling snow. Isak sits beside him for a while, watching him sleep, until his stomach starts to rumble, reminding him he hasn’t eaten anything after the hurried cup of instant coffee he’d had for lunch. With a sniffle reaches for his beanie on the table and pulls it tight over his ears, then gets up onto his feet, exposing tiny puddles of melted snow like streaks of snot under his boots.

On the other side of the wall someone is sobbing rhythmically.

Isak can’t remember how it feels like.

*

It’s dark in the apartment when Isak gets home. Aksel must still be at work, which is nothing out of the ordinary. Some days their only interaction is a quick kiss of hello and goodbye exchanged at the doorstep. Aksel’s not home that much, but it’s fine. Will be fine. Probably.

Without bothering to turn on the lights, Isak kicks off his boots, bending over to pick up the mail. He sniffles and gives the two measly kebab fliers and an H&M catalogue an unimpressed frown before tossing them onto the side table, where they will most likely gather dust until someone notices that the kebab coupons have long since expired and throws them away.

Feeling a wet patch on his sock, Isak crouches to touch his heel, glancing down at his feet: clods of snow have melted into tiny puddles on the floor, grains of sand shimmering like islands in the water.

Whatever, he thinks.

Today is shit, anyway.

What’s a few puddles in the pouring rain?

To Isak’s surprise, he finds Aksel hunkered down in the bedroom, staring at the gecko as though it could break into song any moment now.

In the past it would’ve made his heart jump for joy to find his boyfriend already at home. Now it—doesn’t.

“Thought you were at rehearsal,” Isak says flatly, careful not to make his tone sound like an accusation. His body feels heavy and he’s tired of arguing. The air between them is still delicate after the explosion, and he can sense they’re threading a thin line.

Aksel doesn’t turn his gaze from the terrarium.

“I didn’t get the part.” His voice is distant and unconcerned, like he’s talking about someone else. The words fall like stones into the ravine between them.

In Isak’s mind he is stretching out his hand to touch Aksel’s shoulder, but in the physical realm his hand remains tucked in his pocket, paralyzed as though infected by Terje’s condition.

Aksel presses his nose against the glass. The moment makes him appear like a young boy instead of the man that he is. That wanton defiance was one of the first things that attracted Isak to him, Isak remembers now. Sana says it helps to remember the good things.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Isak asks.

“Not really.” Aksel gives a shrug. He doesn’t need to say anything else, Isak can read the rest between the lines: You wouldn’t understand because you’re not an actor. You build _robots_ ; what would you know about art and the scope of human emotion?

Everything between the lines is true. He doesn’t know shit about art or the scope of human emotion. Building robots is easy: when they break down or experience malfunction, you find the root of the problem, and you fix it. You build a new, improved version.

Meanwhile humans just shatter and break.

“Okay,” Isak says, lowering himself onto the office chair.

Aksel turns to look at him then, like he’s had an afterthought. “How was your dad?”

Isak clenches his jaw. “The usual.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Isak replies with a shrug, flipping the laptop open before adding, “Your H&M catalogue is on the side table.”

Aksel snorts, pushing himself onto his feet. “Just what I needed.”

At least this time he doesn’t slam the door behind him.

Silence fills the room. The laptop is rebooting after a Window’s update, an old piece of shit. Cursing under his breath, Isak gives the desk an irritated shove and slumps down in the chair. Windows updates are like boners: always appearing at the worst moment, he thinks, spinning in the chair like an overcooked noodle, arms flapping in the air.

Eventually the laptop finishes updating itself, and looking for a distraction, Isak logs in on Steam. Jonas, Magnus and Mahdi are all offline—fucking assholes with better things to do— so he settles for a Dota 2 match with a bunch of Russian teenagers that call him all names in the book after he fucks over their team by ganking too early.

“You weren’t exactly strategic masterminds yourselves, little shits,” he mutters to himself before exiting the game, then without much thought opens the web browser.

Lately every aimless browsing session seems to lead to the same Google search, and this time is no different: _hemorrhagic stroke recovery_ appears in the search bar like clockwork.

> Hemorrhagic stroke is life threatening. Up to half of all people with intracerebral hemorrhage die. Many of these deaths occur within the first two days. For those who survive a brain hemorrhage, recovery is slow. Only 12% of people are able to recover complete or near-complete functioning within 30 days of the stroke.

Isak can recite the words by heart now, like some morbid poem he’s memorized. He knows science won’t change overnight. Whatever breakthroughs may await in the future, they don’t mean shit today. Yet he can’t stop checking, looking for some straw to clutch at. A new lead, a faint glimmer of hope, what else is there. Anything that says it can’t stay like this, won’t be like this forever.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself should nothing change for the better.

In a sense Terje got lucky: odds weren’t on his side, yet he survived. Isn’t that the story people tell themselves: you’re the sole survivor in a plane crash, and suddenly you’re lucky, even if true luck would be not getting into a plane crash in the first place. You go through a tragedy, and suddenly you find yourself crowned a lucky bastard when it doesn’t kill you.

Mom said it was God’s saving grace that kept Terje alive; that as long as God still has work for you, he will not allow you to leave this earth. Maybe Hell was closed on Christmas Eve, Isak had thought bitterly, almost snorting at his own cleverness. But seeing the serene look on her face, the unwavering belief shining in her eyes, he’d let it be. The world’s broken her heart enough times as it is, the weight of everything made her fragile and quiet. When Isak shouted at her in the parking lot of IKEA on his 16th birthday, she’d cowered like a small animal behind the steering wheel. Maybe that’s part of the reason he’s doing any of this: if he can’t ask her for forgiveness, he can at least struggle for it.

Because he can’t ask for her forgiveness.

Can’t, because she’d give it.

The doctor said Isak’s immediate action was life-saving. Without his happening to be there Terje wouldn’t have stood a chance. The ambulance arrived in less than ten minutes after he made the call, but those were perhaps the most frightening minutes in Isak’s entire life. Nothing about it had been heroic or worth commending. In a lifetime of helplessness, it was the most helpless he’d ever felt.

Because that voice from your childhood that lies to you and tells you that your parents are made of things far stronger than muscle and bone never fully dies; it only goes to sleep until one day you wake up and you find your parents are old and weak now, and you see their gashes and their wounds, and you realize, for the first time: their blood is just ordinary blood. Ordinary blood is all it’s ever been and all you’ll ever be. It is only through this realization that people truly grow up.

For a moment there Terje was virtually dead. For a moment there the power to decide whether to pull the plug had been within Isak’s reach.

Recovery is slow.

Doesn’t make it any less weird. Isak’s probably spent more time with his dad in the hospital than all the years before added together, sometimes flicking through the tv channels, at other times sitting in the quiet. In stories hardship is what ties families together. In real life it’s what tears them apart. And yet—

 _You’re all he has; there is no one else_.

Isak can’t remember for sure who told him that. Maybe Eskild— _probably_ Eskild. Eskild’s never known how to mind his own business. Where there’s Eskild, there’s a blind date or a surprise cake, or an unrequested opinion on whichever situation Isak happens to find himself in at the time.

But sometimes even Eskild’s right.

There is no one else.

Just Isak.

And the gecko.

Aksel doesn’t want the gecko around, he’s been pretty clear on that. He doesn’t like the gecko, and the crickets repulse him, and he wants them gone.

It’s not that Isak’s thrilled to have a container of crickets chirping in the kitchen every time he wants to make a sandwich. He’s not some goddamn hippie that meditates and eats sprouts and parades around Løkka in hemp pants, and he won’t turn into one no matter how many bottles of organic maple syrup Jonas insists on sending him from Canada.

But it’s enough that Terje left him—Terje’s gecko doesn’t deserve to be put through the same fate.

The gecko stays.

There is no other option.

Drawing his lower lip between his teeth, Isak closes the browser. Rather than turn the laptop off and find something else to do with his time, he finds his eyes glued to the desktop wallpaper. His own smiling face stares right back at him, in the picture taken on his 29th birthday last summer. Wrapped in a golden cocoon of the sun, skin glowing in the midsummer light, they laugh. Isak holding a silly balloon in one hand, Aksel with his head turned just enough to kiss him on the cheek, corners of his eyes crinkling.

It’s the perfect picture. If Isak could go back in time and return to that moment, surely he would find himself happy. They were happy then, weren’t they?

Weren’t they?

A knock on the door makes him jolt as though back in his teenage bedroom, back in those nights spent looking at gay porn with waves of shame and fear and excitement surging in his belly while his parents were yelling at each other in the next room.

But he’s not in his teenage bedroom; he’s at home, in the home he shares with his boyfriend of six years, and they are not his parents, nor will they repeat his parents’ mistakes.

Isak drags an icon across the screen until it’s positioned over his face, obscuring his expression. Something about the action satisfies a need in him. Then he spins around, gripping the arms of the chair.

“It’s your room too,” he says, waiting for Aksel to enter.

There are dark circles under Aksel’s eyes that Isak is only now noticing; in the morning he was too focused on winning the argument to see anything beyond the point he was trying to make.

“I’m sorry,” Aksel begins, his eyes flicking over Isak’s face. “About everything.”

Isak gives him a faint smile, holding out his arms. “Me too.”

A shadow of hesitation briefly crosses Aksel’s face before he takes a step forward and lets Isak pull him into an embrace. Eventually his body relaxes against Isak and his chin comes to rest on Isak’s shoulder, a rare gesture of compliance, his soft breath tickling Isak’s neck.

Even as they hold each other, Isak’s gaze darts around the room. The curtains are drawn back, but the ceiling light reflecting in the window makes it hard to see outside; it’s as though they exist in two dimensions at the same time: in this one, and in the one inside the window where the room repeats. If he turns off the lights, the Isak in the window will vanish without a trace, disappear into the dark.

A snow plough drives past, its loud clatter reaching to their bedroom all the way from the street below. It’s going to take a long time for the piles of snow to melt, Isak thinks as Aksel stirs in his arms, let’s go of the back of Isak’s shirt.

They kiss but it doesn’t fix everything.

Doesn’t fix anything, really.

*

That night in Isak’s dream the gecko begins to talk.

“Do you remember?” it asks, running down Isak’s arm. The voice sounds familiar, but Isak can’t quite put his finger on it, which irritates him like an itch you can’t scratch away.

“Remember what?” he snarls at the gecko, eyes scanning the horizon.

The shadows of the trees are growing longer, almost reaching the railway tracks now, and Isak is starting to get impatient. The train should have arrived minutes, maybe hours ago. It’s the last train of the day, and the thought of being stranded in this place that is at once so familiar yet so strange unnerves him more than he is willing to admit—Not to mention the fact that there’s a creepy talking gecko keeping him company.

The gecko curls its tail around Isak’s pinkie, fixing him with its watchful gaze. “Don’t act stupid,” it says, its tone oddly offended now.

Isak can only blink. “Huh?”

“You ought to remember,” the gecko scolds him, “when I brought you here, and kissed you behind that pile of timber.”

The memory bursts out of him. Hair falling over his eyes. Even’s breath on his face, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. The roughness of the slivers of wood against his back. The softness of kissing a boy for the first time.

“I—" Isak breathes out, but he is cut off then as the ground begins to shake. The train is approaching, and a heavy peal like thunder washes over them. The world is a horribly loud place. Isak covers his ears as the train rushes past them like a massive snake or a dragon’s tail, lurching and raising clouds of dust in its wake. The wind comes in great gusts, disheveling Isak’s hair and making it hard to see. Frantic, he tries to shout at the train to make it stop, but it’s a futile attempt, his voice dying out before it leaves his throat.

Just like that, in the blink of an eye, the train disappears into the dusk, and Isak is alone.

After a while the dust begins to settle, forming a grainy film over his exposed skin, one that makes the scars on his arm glow like snow in the dirt. Nothing sticks to scar tissue, the hairless and poreless being that it is. Then, feeling an odd shape against his palm, Isak carefully opens his hand: the gecko is gone, but its tail remains, reminding him of—

Isak wakes up with a startle.

Covered in cold sweat he sits up and shudders, the dream sticking to his skin like grime. He runs a hand through his hair and pats his cheeks to snap himself out of the disoriented haze, then fumbles for his glasses, flicking on the bedside lamp while he’s at it.

4 AM.

Aksel’s side of the bed is empty, only the half-empty glass of water on his nightstand hinting at his presence. He might have said something about going for a drink with some other theater folks, to think of it.

When Aksel’s happy, he goes out. “Celebration honors the joy, Isak,” he would say and kiss Isak on the mouth; “Come on, let’s live a little,” he would say, and Isak would wipe his bottom lip with his thumb and watch Aksel’s back recede into the crowd.

When Aksel’s down, he goes out, somewhere where there’s noise and sound and color and life to drown in. “ _Listen_ ,” he would say, in that urgent tone he’s reserved for quoting poems Isak never recognizes, “ _are you breathing just a little and calling it a life_?”, and Isak would listen to the rain patter against their window.

Behind the glass there’s a framed picture of them taken at the backstage of the National Theatre five years ago: Aksel holding an enormous bouquet of flowers, Isak smiling at the camera as though he too were someone interesting. Because everyone thinks they’re interesting once, the exception to every rule; but time passes for everyone, and you grow older. The older you become, the less you feel worthy of capturing, Isak thinks as he peers at the picture through the glass of water, amused by the way their proportions become distorted and blurry. When he tilts his head to the side, the Isak in the photograph duplicates, as though goading him into catching the real him.

Unable to shake off the dream, Isak gets up and heads for the terrarium where he finds the gecko safe and sound, tail in place and everything. He reaches his hand inside to feel the smoothness of the gecko’s skin underneath his fingertips; it’s not much different from stroking the bottom of your feet.

“Hi,” he whispers quietly, “are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?”

For a moment he almost expects the gecko to say something back.

His hand inside the terrarium is warm, but the room is starting to feel chilly. Spring may be on its way, but it’s not here yet. With that thought Isak returns to bed, drapes the duvet around his shoulders like a cape and braces his back against the wall. There’s an unread message from Aksel on his phone. He can imagine its contents well enough but reads the message anyway.

 **Aksel (01:31):** ran into the director who might be doing the seagull. don’t want to wake you up so crashing at ingrid’s. see you tomorrow.

Isak lets out a sigh, dropping the phone onto Aksel’s pillow with a soft thud. Somewhere in the back of his mind the dream still hums. Maybe he’ll talk to Sana about the dream tomorrow at work. She always seems to have an answer for everything.

Flicking off the bedside lamp, Isak disappears into the dark.

*

Sana crosses her arms and scrutinizes him with a look that makes Isak instinctively shove his glasses up his nose. It doesn’t help that as the new team leader she’s basically his superior now, and asking your superiors for personal advice is kind of awkward even if that superior also happens to be your personal friend.

“So, to sum up your story, you’ve established that your ex-boyfriend was a gecko in your dream.”

“ _No_ ,” Isak groans. “He _wasn’t_ a gecko. The gecko just spoke as though it were him.”

Sana doesn’t bat an eyelid. “The difference being?”

“It’s just different,” Isak croaks out, stubbornly ignoring the way her mouth curves into an amused smirk. “There’s a _difference_.”

“Fine,” Sana sighs, throwing her hands up in resignation. “Tell me then: what do you expect me to do with this information?”

Isak can’t stop nibbling on his bottom lip. “Do you think it means something?”

“Maybe you could kiss the gecko,” Sana teases him, making a steeple of her fingers, “See if it turns back into your ex-boyfriend.”

Isak sneers at her. “Thanks, but already tried that.”

Sana sneers right back at him, but a line appears between her brows, and she seems to consider the weight of her words for a moment before asking, “How long were you together?”

“With Even?” Isak jolts upright. He didn’t mean to blurt it out, the name just sort of fell out of his mouth.

“With the geckoman, yes.”

“About a year,” Isak replies, picking a piece of lint from his sleeve, “In high school. So basically a lifetime ago. And could you please not call him the geckoman, it sounds like the title of some Chinese Marvel knock-off.”

When they were together, Even was anything but a knock-off. He was the real fucking deal. There was a time in Isak’s life when he thought that your second love is just a knock-off of the first one.

“Year’s a long time when you’re that young,” Sana says pensively. “Ended on good terms?”

“I guess not,” Isak says with a shrug. It’s the understatement of the century, but he’d rather not dwell on it. There’s a scab on it now, but if you pick off it too much, something ugly might still well up. “How is any of this relevant?”

“It’s not,” Sana says, “I’m just curious about the geckoman.”

Isak scowls at her, so she glances over her shoulder, then lowers her voice. “Look, people have all kinds of dreams. They don’t have to mean anything. Married women have sex dreams of George Clooney— _don’t ask me how I know_. You and Aksel are solid, right? Why worry?”

Isak nods mutely. It’s one thing to acknowledge they’ve been having problems inside his head but another thing to admit it to other people.

Sana raises an eyebrow, and something about the way she looks at him shifts.

“Or do you want it to mean something?” she asks with a hint of suspicion in her voice.

Isak gives a nervous laugh, shoving his hair back away from his face. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know,” Sana says, then waves her hand dismissively. “More importantly, did you have a chance to look at the article I emailed you?”

Isak flinches in shame: he’d forgotten.

“You didn’t, am I right?” Sana sighs heavily. “Lunch break is over, brother Grimm. Get back to work,” she says, turning to face her computer.

Isak taps his mouth with his finger.

It’s the first time in years he’d said Even’s name out loud.

There’s dust on the name, but the splinter still hurts.

*

The weather’s fine on the day of Terje’s discharge. The sky is a blinding shade of blue, and icicles hanging along eaves sparkle in the budding spring light like fangs of hope: dangerously sharp and dangerously beautiful.

It takes about an hour to drive from the hospital to the recovery center lying on the outskirts of Oslo. It’s not a particularly exciting journey: there’s some ruckus at the scene of a fender-bender on the way there, and the radio channel plays the same grating song twice in the first half of the drive.

There is absolutely nothing along the road that Isak hasn’t seen a hundred times before, yet every time he observes Terje out of the corner of his eye, he finds Terje’s eyes only shining brighter and brighter.

It makes Isak wonder how it would feel like to be stuck in a place for months and not have the means to move or express himself. Would he be frightened? Angry? Bored? He thinks he has the answer already, as he can still recall the frantic feeling that gripped his chest in the dream where the train had abandoned him into the wilderness and he’d had no voice to call out. It feels real, even now. He’d been frightened.

Had Terje ever been afraid?

Isak’s too afraid to ask.

“Daylight is getting brighter,” he says instead, adjusting the sun visor.

It’s the only attempt at conversation anyone makes before they arrive at the center.

The car draws up at the front door of the wooden building, and Isak finds a whole welcome committee expecting them outside. Put little flags in their hands and you’d think they’ve gathered to welcome Olympic gold medalists back home. The thought makes Isak snicker.

Two pairs of hands help Terje out of the car and into his wheelchair. Another pair gives Isak a firm handshake. “Let’s get you inside, it’s freezing here,” someone says.

In the distance the sea shimmers, icy waves calling on him like siren song.

*

Unlike the hospital, the rehabilitation center is quite cozy. There are rugs on the floor, and the lounge smells of freshly baked cookies. Better yet, no one’s wearing a hospital gown.

There’s paperwork and a row of introductions. Someone hands Isak a print out of Terje’s daily schedule that makes him feel as though he were about to leave a dog at a pet hotel, but he thanks the person, plastering a smile onto his face.

A woman introducing herself as Ragnhild gives them a house tour: Terje’s room, the lounge, the kitchen, the gym, they inspect every centimeter of the house with fervor that makes cleaning robots pale in comparison, Ragnhild’s constant chatter in the background leaving no room for awkward silences. Isak makes a mental note not to take Eskild with him the next time he comes for a visit, for he is fairly certain Eskild’s and Ragnhild’s energies would cause a chemical reaction that could burn a hole all the way into the mesosphere.

“You must be very busy with work,” Ragnhild says to him, “How wonderful of you to still accompany your father here.”

Isak gives an awkward huff of laughter. “I had to take the day off,” he says, scratching his nose. “But I can visit over the weekends.”

Ragnhild looks pleased. “Support from one’s loved ones is essential to every recovery,” she says, squeezing Terje’s hand. Isak hums a half-hearted response.

There’s a sound of a door opening and closing, and of footsteps drawing nearer. Suddenly Ragnhild’s face lights up, and she starts to enthusiastically wave at someone behind Isak’s back. “Here, come, come,” she gesticulates.

Letting his curiosity get the best of him, Isak turns his head to follow her gaze.

Only he immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Isak can almost feel his blood escaping his face. He grips the push handles of Terje’s wheelchair and swallows.

Whatever he expected to see, it certainly wasn’t’ Even Bech Næsheim in the flesh, walking towards him.

His hair is long now, tied to a man bun, but other than that, not much has changed. His frame is still lanky, his features still delicate.

Isak wants to laugh. The irony of the situation doesn’t escape him. He starts to think about particles escaping out of the exosphere to calm down his racing heartbeat.

Even gives everyone a small nod as he joins them. His expression is the embodiment of politeness, revealing nothing. Has he forgotten, or does he pretend not to remember?

Ragnhild looks overjoyed, her gaze traveling between them like she is about to announce the recipient of the Academy Award for Best Actor. “Terje, Isak, may I introduce you to our star nurse. You’re in great hands.”

Even brushes off the compliment with a short laugh, holding out his hand. “Even. A pleasure to meet you.”

They shake hands like they were strangers.

In a sense they are just that: strangers. Thirteen years is a long time, Isak knows that. He’s moved on, and it’s only fair to expect Even having done the same. First love is called first love because it is the first of many. If it were your only love, it would bear a different name.

So why does something inside of him shrink when Even lets out that laugh of his that Isak knows is reserved for people he's only just met?

They exchange a few pointless pleasantries and marvel at the weather. Isak’s never been more grateful than when Ragnhild glances down at her watch and let’s out a surprised ‘oh look at the time’, taking it as a sign to make up an excuse for himself to leave.

He’s barely managed to step outside when he hears Even calling out after him.

“You dropped this.” Even holds out the keys to Terje’s car, and Isak snatches them with a mumbled thanks.

The years have changed them, but the corners of Even’s eyes still crinkle exactly like Isak remembers them. Being forgotten hurts a little, but being the only one to remember hurts more.

Even hums, shading his eyes with his hand.

Isak straightens his glasses and unlocks the car door. “Well then,” he says, giving a terse nod before turning to walk away.

“Told you you’d look hot with glasses.”

Isak fights the urge to look behind. Something flutters in his chest, something that is asleep but wants to wake up. He slams the door shut and starts the car: if he drives fast enough, the fluttering will go away.

The rolling fields of snow shine like overexposed photographs in the glare of the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I feel about my writing or this fic, but I know that if I don't post this first chapter now then I might end up never posting anything again. So I posted it! If you enjoyed this first chapter even the tiniest bit, I'd love to know! I'm [isaksbestpillow](https://isaksbestpillow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> The poem quoted in this chapter is by Mary Oliver.


	2. Broken glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay FIRST OFF, a massive thank you to everyone who encouraged me to continue writing after the first chapter! I don't know what came to me, but you made me get over it, whatever it was. What an amazing bunch of individuals you are! I hope you'll enjoy the rest of the fic. I've added the slowburn tag because we're almost at 9k with no kissing in sight. I can't write every day or even every week, but the fic isn't abandoned even if my updates aren't always regular.
> 
> Secondly, this chapter hasn't been beta'ed because I suck.

That night Isak’s thoughts keep him awake like flies swarming around a flickering light.

He hadn’t expected to see Even ever again.

He’d admittedly looked him up on Google a few times over the years to satisfy his curiosity, but nothing ever came out of it. Wherever Even was, he didn’t seem to want to be found, and Isak wasn’t desperate enough to hire a private investigator to snoop on an old lover. Desperate, but not _that_ desperate. He’d stopped looking and grown up.

And then Isak had found him, by a complete accident. Virtually walked into him like in one of Even’s movies.

Isak rolls over, finding himself face to face with Aksel. Aksel is snoring lightly, his mouth slightly open, his features soft with sleep. Isak traces a finger across Aksel’s brow, studying its shape. Aksel’s nose crinkles in annoyance and he murmurs something barely inaudible but doesn’t wake up. Overcome with a wave of nostalgia, Isak can’t help the snort that escapes.

Even would have waxed poetic about chance and fate, the lyricism of finding something only after you’ve stopped looking for it.

Or at least the Even immortalized in Isak’s memory would have. But that Even is last winter’s snow, Isak doesn’t know the person he is now. All that’s left of their time together are old memories and new questions.

Does he still hate olives?

Does he still draw like he used to?

Is he with someone, or is he alone?

Did he find what he was looking for?

Part of Isak wonders if he ever knew Even at all.

Because if he did, surely he would have seen it coming.

Footsteps echo in the stairway, and there’s a loud thud as something hits the floor. Must be the newspaper carrier. It’s the hour of the day that is neither night nor morning, the bridge between two realms where the sleepless either find their rest or give up altogether.

Isak rolls onto his back and lets out a puff of air, staring at the ceiling that without his glasses on is blurry like skies covered in mist. Sleep won’t find him tonight, he can feel it in the restless tingling in his limbs. If he gets up now, he can still get some work done before the inevitable crash. Maybe a quick shower to wash the night off, then a cup of strong coffee to start the day.

With new-found determination Isak puts his glasses on and tiptoes towards the door, but on his way stops to glance at the terrarium. The shape of his naked body reflects dimly in the glass. Inside the reflection the gecko is awake, drinking water droplets off a rock. There is something soothing about its nimble movements in the stillness of the night. Isak studies it for a while, then nods.

Terje must have had his reasons for picking a nocturnal animal.

*

Jonas calls on a Wednesday.

“Bro, you look like shit,” he says as soon as the video call connects.

“Stop shooting loads onto your phone screen and maybe you’d see better,” Isak replies sardonically, yet steals a glance at himself in the tiny square in the corner of his screen: maybe he could use a haircut.

Jonas grins and leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “How’s the old man?”

Isak scrolls down on his laptop, biting his lip in faux-concentration. “According to Facebook, feeling frisky.”

Jonas laughs. “I’ll tell Eskild on you.”

Isak shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t said to him a hundred times before,” he says innocently. “And the old man’s the same as ever. Hemiplegia, aphasia, same old shit. Still paralyzed on the right side, still can’t decipher language properly.”

“Damn.”

Isak snorts, rubbing his chin absentmindedly. “But they moved him to a rehabilitation center where they’re teaching him to move his hand and talk again. It’s all about constant repetition now.”

“That sounds like progress.”

“That’s what I thought, but I went to the center and now I’m not sure.”

Jonas laughs. “What do you know about rehabilitation?”

“Even was there.”

“Who’s that?”

“There’s only ever been one Even,” Isak says, feeling a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“You mean the Even?” Jonas asks, ears perking up. “From broke Isak Valtersen’s heart fame?”

“He was there.”

Jonas’s smile fades. “He’s paralyzed now? Poor guy.”

“What? No! He works there.”

“I’d say that’s better than being paralyzed.”

“Yeah but it was awkward,” Isak insists, drawing his lower lip between his teeth. “He pretended not to recognize me.”

Jonas gives him an all-knowing look. “Because you’d start reminiscing the bygone days with any old flame that stops by your workplace.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s not different and you know it. It’s been what, ten years? And the dude was at work. Chill out, man. Roll a joint.”

Isak lets out a huff of laughter. “Aksel smoked the last one. He’s been pretty tense with the whole National Theatre thing.”

“Still trying to make it into a regular?”

“Until the day he dies,” Isak says, giving a half-smile. “He’s a stubborn boy.”

Jonas smirks. “Isn’t that why you love him?”

Isak hums and reaches to crack the window a bit to let air inside. The breeze feels cool but not too cold on his face. It’s not entirely dark yet. Children are having a snowball fight in the park across the street, their sharp shrieks and bright laughter piercing the blue twilight. “How’s Sarah?”

“She wants me to get rid of the plants once the baby’s out. I’m still perfecting my counter-argument, I feel like I’ve only got one chance to make her see the light.”

“Be careful. Your face might lose its appeal once she sees the light,” Isak sneers, docking when Jonas gives him the finger.

They sit in silence for a while, only the sounds of the snowball fight echoing from afar. Eventually darkness falls, and the children scatter like a flock of pigeons into the night. Isak cranes his neck to follow with his gaze as they pick up their school bags and start galloping into opposite directions.

Jonas’s voice startles him.

“Big changes, man.”

Isak turns to look at the phone screen. Jonas is sitting cross-legged now, humming under his breath while rolling a joint between his fingers. Everything about him is the same as it’s ever been, except for the fact that he’s in Canada and Canada is far away.

_Can you come back because I miss you something awful._

“Can you…” Isak thinks out loud, and Jonas gazes up from his joint with an expecting look on his face. Isak lets out a chuckle of self-mockery and shakes his head. “Can you let me know once you’ve picked the name?”

Jonas beams. “Obviously. Exclaiming ‘oh Jonas, that’s the most amazing name anyone’s ever come up with’ will be your first duty as the godfather.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Not if you name the kid Marx.”

“Marx was a capitalist.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

Jonas grins. “Not my kid.”

Isak listens to Jonas rant about capitalism for a few more minutes until Sarah’s voice from the background points out they’re going to be late for the ultrasound if Jonas can’t shut his big mouth. Isak gives her an apologetic smile even though she can’t see him, then ends the call and looks over his shoulder to find Aksel standing in the doorway with his coat still on.

“I brought you McDonald’s. The lid broke but I don’t have time to clean it up, I’m already about to be late for rehearsal.”

“Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

“See you later.”

Isak nods at him in response, then spins around in his chair until he hears the front door closing. The cold air from outside is making him shiver, so eventually he gets up to shut the window, rubbing his arms for warmth.

From behind his desk he can see Aksel’s dark shape run across the park. Towards the tram stop and away from him.

*

Stopping the engine, Isak glances at himself in the rearview mirror and gives himself a curt nod, lips pressed together.

He’s got this.

He’s had the whole week to think of possible things to say to Even should their paths cross at the center again. ‘What a snowy year, huh?’ is always a strong opener. Completely neutral but still factual. It’s almost a shame Isak hadn’t thought of becoming a meteorologist instead of venturing into robotics: that way he’d have an inoffensive weather-related topic up his sleeve for every occasion.

And who’s to say he’s even going to run into Even this time? The point of his visit is to check up on Terje, not to conduct in-dept interviews with the nurses. Nothing about it requires Even’s presence.

Even is just one of the nurses to him now. That they’ve moaned each other’s names is but an appendix.

And since when has anyone cared about reading the appendix? Since never, Isak thinks.

*

Isak finds Terje in his room, sat in front of the tv in his wheelchair. Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal are yelling at each other on tv, and Isak struggles to hide his surprise.

“Son,” Terje says. His voice sounds strained but a corner of his mouth lifts as though he’s smiling.

Isak lowers himself onto Terje’s bed and crosses his arms, stretching out his legs in front of him. “Not your usual movie,” he says, nodding at the tv.

“Even’s pick.”

Isak raises his eyebrows but doesn’t reply, and soon their conversation dries up as the movie sucks him in. He’s seen it before, but something about today makes it feel as if he were watching it for the first time. He knows how the story ends, yet when it ends, his heart feels heavy.

The credits are still rolling in the background as he glances at Terje, noticing a tear brimming in the corner of his eye. But they don’t talk about these things because it makes them both uncomfortable, so Isak springs up and hastily wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “I’ll go buy a snack. I think I saw a vending machine,” he mumbles before slipping out of the room.

There’s a sink in the corridor facing Terje’s door.

Gripping the sink with both hands, Isak takes in a harsh breath, letting his hair fall over his eyes. Then he raises his head and looks in the mirror: a flush has crept up his face, and his eyes are somewhat puffy. Isak turns on the tap and places his glasses on the sink, then starts frantically splashing water on his face. As he does so, he manages to knock over his glasses, and they fall onto the floor with a clang. Alarmed by the sound, Isak quickly closes the tap and crouches to muddle around for his glasses, water still dripping from his face.

The left lens is cracked: a massive scratch like Harry Potter’s scar adorns the glass, distorting Isak’s vision.

“Shit.” Isak gnashes his teeth, stomping his foot in a moment of irritation.

“What’s the matter?” Ragnhild’s curious voice asks from behind him, and Isak can’t help but think she could carve out a successful career for herself in the tabloids.

“Nothing,” Isak says, giving a little laugh of disbelief. “Just broke my glasses, that’s all.”

“How terrible,” Ragnhild says sympathetically.

“Can I ask you for a favor? I know visiting hours are almost over, but could you give me one more hour so I can get someone to come and pick up me and my car? I can’t risk driving without my glasses. I’m practically blind.”

“But of course,” Ragnhild says, “Take all the time that you need.”

Isak scratches the back of his neck. Who should he call? Not Aksel, Aksel’s at work preparing for the premiere. Jonas would come in a heartbeat if he weren’t in Canada. Eskild can’t drive. Sana. He’ll call Sana.

The call goes to Sana’s voicemail.

“Shit,” Isak moans. “I mean, hey Sana. I broke my glasses and need someone to drive my dad’s car. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Call me as soon as you get this.”

“I’ll drive you,” Even’s voice offers from behind the corner.

Isak shuffles back a step, offhandedly dropping his glasses onto the nearest surface. When did Even get here? Doesn’t he have patients to attend to, lives to save?

“Absolutely not,” Isak replies firmly, turning around to face Even. Or the little he can make out of Even without his glasses, that is.

“It’s not a bother. My shift is over, and I was going home anyway,” Even says, “Or would you rather stay here with Ragnhild waiting for your friend? Ragnhild loves gossip, maybe you could share some of yours with her.” His tone sounds awfully lot like teasing now, and Isak hates him for it.

Isak considers his options. Saturday night gossip with Ragnhild doesn’t sound appealing. Saturday night driving with Even in his dad’s car even less so, but at least it would be over quicker. He’s prepared his weather speech, he’ll be fine. Even’s just a nurse helping to care for his dad.

“Fine,” Isak says after his moment of consideration. “But first, you wouldn’t happen to know where I’ve put my glasses again?”

Even points his finger at something on the floor. Isak squints at him in confusion, then takes a step forward that ends with a loud crack. Shards of broken glass crunch under his shoe.

“Jesus fuck,” Isak shrieks, smacking his forehead.

“I'm ready whenever you are,” Even says.

Isak can’t make sense of the blur shrouding Even’s face, but he could swear Even is grinning.

*

The car is too small for two tall people and their complicated history.

Isak regrets not taking the backseat. Without his glasses on he can’t make out where the screen of his phone ends and his own hand begins, and it’s too dark outside to convincingly pretend to be admiring the scenery.

It seems all they can do to pass the time is talk.

Isak clears his throat. “What a snowy year, huh?”

“Indeed,” Even hums, bopping his head to a silent tune.

“Indeed,” Isak echoes like an idiot.

Even bursts into laughter, quickly turning to look at Isak and then at the road again. “Cool conversation.”

Isak snorts, hiding his face in his scarf. “Shut up.”

Even takes out his phone and starts to fiddle with it, one hand still on the steering wheel. Just as Isak is about to snap at him for not focusing on the road, Walking on Broken Glass by Annie Lennox starts playing.

“Not fair!” Isak shrieks.

Even throws his head back in laughter. “Sorry. Couldn’t help it. You were too funny back there.”

Isak folds his arms and lets out a ‘hmph’, unsuccessfully trying to stop a smile from creeping onto his lips. Suddenly he feels sixteen all over again, and trying to supress a smile is like trying to stop an echo.

Laughing together relaxes them.

“The other day, I thought you didn’t recognize me for a second,” Isak admits.

“Sorry. Was at work, and Ragnhild loves her gossip.”

“Jonas told me as much,” Isak mutters.

Even chuckles as if pleased by the news. “You told Jonas about me?”

“I mean it came up,” Isak evades the question, realizing he may have revealed too much.

Luckily Even doesn’t probe further, instead graciously changes the topic. “What does he do these days?”

“Sells skateboards in Toronto with his wife. I call him a part-time communist,” Isak says.

It’s better to leave out the part about still not being completely used to not having Jonas around. The ugly part that feels jealous of Sarah and the unborn baby for taking away what used to be his.

Even laughs. “I don’t know whether I was or wasn’t expecting that.”

“Which part?”

“All of them.”

“I wasn’t expecting to find you nursing my dad back to health, either,” Isak points out. “What ever happened to Hollywood?”

Even shrugs. “Suddenly Hollywood felt like the easier route.”

Isak is not sure he understands Even’s reasoning but decides not to press it further. “I’m a robotics engineer,” he offers instead.

“Oh, like R2D2?” Even asks mischievously.

Isak sneers at him. “SCARA robots. They’re like robotic arms.”

“That’s interesting.”

Isak hums. “You don’t have to lie to me just to protect my feelings.”

“I’m serious. I always thought you were a bit of a genius.”

Isak hides a smile. “Heard you’re the one responsible of my dad watching Brokeback Mountain,” he mentions as though in passing, hoping Even will get the hint.

“My job is to support him as he regains his mobility. Thought it might move something inside of him,” Even replies, then adds, “And it’s a relatable movie.”

Isak swallows. His options are limited. He can either sit in this car another half an hour beating about the bush, or spit out the question that’s kept him awake a hundred nights over the past thirteen years.

For once in his life, Isak chooses courage.

“Did it work?” he asks, glad he can’t make out the details of Even’s expression. “You know, reading the Bible and going to those meetings.”

Isak holds his breath, unsure why Even is suddenly pointing at something on his coat.

“I can’t see shit without my glasses,” he says, squinting at what appears to be some kind of a pin.

“It’s the pansexual pride flag.”

“You didn’t turn straight?”

“I’m not straight,” Even says, “Nor do I wish I were.”

“Oh,” Isak says.

They lapse into an expectant silence. Outside the window the night deepens, and only Annie Lennox’s face on the screen placed between them lights up the dark.

“Look,” Even says, clearing his throat. “When I left, it wasn’t because of something that you did. I’m sorry for making it seem that way.” His voice sounds careful, like he’s listening to the echo of every word inside his head before speaking them.

Isak gives him an encouraging smile. “It was a long time ago. I’m over it.”

Even fidgets in his seat and strokes his throat as though reluctant to continue the conversation. Isak realizes his movements remind him of the gecko as it’s about to shed its skin.

Maybe that’s why it doesn’t surprise him all that much when Even turns to him and says, “I’m bipolar.”

There’s a pause. Then, “I wanted to save you from the burden of myself.”

Isak can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes. He doesn’t know whether to feel offended or relieved. “Is that why you left me right after what happened with Mom?”

“You were already going through so much. If there was even an ounce of pain that I could shield you from, I figured I should do it.”

Isak brushes Even’s shoulder with his knuckles, a gesture he remembers would bring Even comfort when they were young. “Thank you,” he says kindly. It’s too little and too late, but it’s all he has to offer.

Then, thinking his touch has lingered on Even for too long, Isak lets his hand fall onto the armrest between them, fingers illuminated by the light of Annie Lennox's face. “But I wish you hadn’t done it. I don’t want to be coddled like I was made of glass.”

Even lets out a stifled laugh. “Well, the truth is out now. Thirteen years too late.”

It’s the saddest laugh Isak has ever heard.

Annie Lennox seems to agree: the phone screen switches off like a fading star.

*

They wave each other goodbye in front of Terje’s garage.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Even asks. “I can see you off to your place and take a different tram home.”

Isak brushes the worry off with a grin. “I’ll manage. If worst comes to worst, I can crash on my dad’s sofa and have someone bring me my spare glasses tomorrow,” he says, twirling Terje’s keys on his finger to back himself up.

The someone has a name, yet standing in front of Even Isak can’t bring himself to say it. He knows the guilt will consume him once he’s back in their bedroom, but in this moment it feels good to pretend like his life with Aksel doesn’t exist. Maybe that’s what makes people shoot heroin, despite knowing it’s an awful lot of shit for a momentary bliss.

“Okay,” Even nods.

“See you at the center?” Isak asks tentatively.

Even smiles at him. “Yeah.”

“I’ll see you when I see you,” Isak says.

“Hopefully with better vision next time.”

Isak chuckles. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Even says, swaying on his feet. “Bye.”

Isak raises his hand in mock-salute and nods. “Bye.”

After Even’s back has disappeared into the night, Isak unlocks his phone and squints at the screen, trying to make out the letters.

GPS SIGNAL NOT FOUND, it says.

Isak snorts, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Standing outside his childhood home on a Saturday night, he feels more lost than he’s felt in a long time.

Behind him a block of snow slides off the roof and comes crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Annie Lennox - Walking on Broken Glass](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y25stK5ymlA)
> 
> I have a [small tag](https://isaksbestpillow.tumblr.com/tagged/dysecdysis) for this fic on my tumblr. Feel free to come and say hi!


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